The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Spleen and Ideal

Le Masque

The Mask

38 lines · 12 notes

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  1. 1

    Allegorical statue in the taste of the Renaissance

    StatueStatuestatue · noun, feminine, singularhead of the phrase (title)
    allégoriqueallegoricalallégorique · adjective, singularmodifies Statue
    dansindans · prepositionpreposition marking goût
    lethele · determiner, masculine, singulardeterminer of goût
    goûttastegoût · noun, masculine, singularmodifies Statue
    deofde · prepositionpreposition marking Renaissance
    lathele · determiner, feminine, singulardeterminer of Renaissance
    RenaissanceRenaissanceRenaissance · proper noun, feminine, singularmodifies goût
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    To Ernest Christophe, sculptor.

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    Let us contemplate this treasure of Florentine graces;

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    In the undulation of this muscular body

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    Elegance and Strength abound, divine sisters.

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    This woman, a truly miraculous morsel,

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    Divinely robust, adorably slender,

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    Is made to sit enthroned upon sumptuous beds

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    And to charm the leisure of a pontiff or a prince.

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    — And so, behold this smile, refined and voluptuous,

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    Where Self-Conceit parades its rapture;

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    This long gaze, sly, languorous, and mocking;

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    This dainty face, all framed in gauze,

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    Whose every feature tells us with a conquering air:

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    "Voluptuousness calls me and Love crowns me!"

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    To this being endowed with such majesty

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    See what an exciting charm her prettiness bestows!

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    Let us draw near, and turn about her beauty.

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    O blasphemy of art! O fatal surprise!

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    The woman with the divine body, promising bliss,

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    Above the waist ends in a two-headed monster!

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    — But no! it is only a mask, a seducing disguise,

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    This face lit up with an exquisite grimace,

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    And, look, behold, clenched atrociously,

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    The true head, and the sincere face

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    Turned over, sheltered behind the face that lies.

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    Poor great beauty! the magnificent river

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    Of your tears flows into my anxious heart;

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    Your lie intoxicates me, and my soul drinks deep

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    From the floods that Sorrow makes gush from your eyes!

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    — But why does she weep? She, perfect beauty,

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    Who could lay the conquered human race at her feet,

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    What mysterious ill gnaws her athlete's flank?

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    — She weeps, fool, because she has lived!

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    And because she lives! But what she laments

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    Above all, what makes her shudder to the knees,

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    Is that tomorrow, alas! she must go on living!

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    Tomorrow, the day after, and forever! — like us!

The particulars

The text
Les Fleurs du mal, Charles Baudelaire. Spleen and Ideal.
Translation
Public-domain French (Baudelaire, d. 1867). English translation © 2026 1732 Studios, LLC.
Words
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Data
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